


A Private Audience

by Vae



Category: Sins of the Cities Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Light BDSM, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: Greta can't be seen to leave with a young gentleman.Shecanmeet up with a friend who knows what she likes.





	A Private Audience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [la_dissonance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/gifts).



The rich have their clubs. The men have their pubs. Wych Street has its brothels and molly houses. The middle classes, God help them, have their stifling respectability.

Greta Starling doesn't give a fuck, because what Greta has is _freedom_.

There are limits to everything. There are limits to freedom. Mostly, when Greta comes up against those limits, she also has Pen.

Pen's the one who signs the official agreement on the rooms in Fox Court, but not until after Greta's given him the nod. The unofficial agreement, the one between Pen and Greta, that one's more important. No one, but no one, gets invited back to those rooms without agreeing it together first. Those rooms are their sanctuary, but not their home.

Home is on the trapeze, flying, embracing and taming that giddy rush into enough focus to catch Pen's hands, catch the trapeze, force her body through twists and curls and soaking in every gasp from the watching crowd, every scatter of applause. Complete trust, complete freedom, and an audience.

Oh yes, an audience.

***

Stage paint's a bitch to get off. Doesn't seem to bother Pen, like the paint's a part of who he is, but Greta can hardly wait to get it off her face, smearing cold cream over her face and neck and scrubbing at it with a towel until Pen takes it from her. She sits, impatient, as he swipes it over her cheeks and closed eyes.

"Was good tonight, yeah?" he says, like Greta can answer when the towel's over her lips.

She grabs for a corner of it, wiping the remains of cream from her mouth until she can barely taste it any more. "Yeah. We've got that catch safe, the somersault one."

Pen grins at her, bleary through the cream still clinging to her eyelashes. "So what are we going to do with it next?"

Greta shrugs, grinning right back. "Add a twist? Or throw me?"

There's a knocking on the door before Pen can answer, and Greta curses under her breath, turning to present her corset strings to Pen so he can pull them snug and tie them into the knot she can reach to undo on her own. "Two minutes!"

"Make it one, darlings," comes Stella's voice through the door. "You know how long Fanny takes over her face."

"Half the time you do, darling," Fanny says, and the sound of the scuffle outside gives Greta enough time to pull her dress on and button her bodice.

Pen's dressed before Greta's finished working the button hook for each button on her boots, as much because he's still painted as because his clothes are easier to get into. She straightens up with a huff of breath and skewers her hat into place with a long pin driven through her hair. "Ready?"

Pen bows with a flourish and offers her his hand. "Time to meet our public."

There are a few people outside - not too many, most of the audience are still inside waiting to see Fanny and Stella. It's enough to be flattering, though - the Flying Starlings are beginning to make a name for themselves. For now, Greta's content with their place on the bill. It means a steady income and not being out too late at night.

She stands back, letting Pen hold court. He's good with an audience like this, better than she is, and it gives her a chance to look over the people waiting, making sure there's no one to be a threat to Pen, and looking for... yes, there at the back. When Pen gives her the signal, she comes up and slips her arm through his, stealing him away with a laugh until they're at the end of the alley that leads from the stage door back to the street.

Greta can't be seen to leave with a young gentleman. It's too risky to be perceived as being available like that.

She _can_ meet up with a friend who knows what she likes.

***

Greta's happy enough in the Gin Kitchen but Isabel's got more dainty tastes, which is why they're sitting in an ABC tea room with tea and sandwiches on the table between them. There are probably women in here who've been to see Isabel in her tent at the circus, but none of them ever recognise the fortune teller without her silks and shadows and her cards. It always surprises Greta, because she'd know Isabel anywhere.

"You were at the show tonight," Greta says at last, fingers curled around her teacup. The teacup's dainty, just like Isabel. Like Greta isn't.

Isabel's smile lights up the room, sudden and warm. "I didn't know if you'd see me."

"I always know when you're watching me." It didn't take her focus from the performance - nothing could, she couldn't allow that, because it would put Pen in danger - but Greta had definitely known. There was a different quality to the attention from the audience when Isabel was there. "Just you. No one else from the circus."

"Not tonight." Isabel's smile slips, just for a moment. "You know how they can be."

Greta knows. She knows that the only reason Isabel's there is because the circus isn't open tonight, and she knows that there are still people at the circus who can't understand why she and Pen left to stay in one place. "But you're here."

"Yes." Isabel reaches across the table to brush her fingers against the back of Greta's hand, sending a slow shiver of awareness through her. "You've got so much better, both of you. Stronger."

From some people, that wouldn't be a compliment. From Isabel, it makes Greta warm with pleasure, and she turns her hand to capture Isabel's. "We've been working hard."

"It shows." The faintest trace of colour pinks Isabel's cheeks as her smile widens. "Are you happy here?"

"Happy enough." Happy is... well. There's Pen. She's with Pen and they're safe and neither of them have heard of the Potters in years. They haven't heard from their mother in years, either, but they're together and they've got somewhere to fly, and Pen can be Pen. "It's good, 'Bel."

Isabel squeezes her hand. "I'm glad. You should be happy."

"Pen looks after me," Greta says firmly. "And I look after Pen. Are you going back to the circus tonight?"

"No." Isabel meets Greta's gaze steadily even as her blush grows darker. "I've got a room in a boarding house, just for tonight."

Promising. "A room to yourself? Not sharing?"

Isabel's lips curve into a small, private smile. "I'm not sharing it yet."

Greta lets herself smile in return. "I'll walk you back."

***

It's a small room with a small chair and a small bed, and it's private. Greta shuts the door behind her and leans back against it, watching Isabel turn to face her. The room doesn't matter, it could be any one of the rooms they've shared, but the privacy matters when Greta holds her hands out and Isabel rushes to take them, letting Greta draw her in for a kiss.

Isabel's lips are soft against Greta's, the kiss hot with hunger. Greta reaches up blindly to tug Isabel's hatpin out, pull her hat off, start removing hair pins to let blonde curls tumble down over her hands, silky and warm. Isabel's dress is silky as well, something much finer than Greta's own woollen dress, fabric slippery under Greta's fingers.

Greta couldn't say if she breaks the kiss or Isabel does, but they're both breathless and laughing, Greta still holding Isabel's hat, Isabel's hands on Greta's shoulders, fingers twisted in her shawl.

"It's been weeks," Isabel says, her eyes bright.

"Months," Greta agrees, and pushes Isabel away gently, far enough that she can put down Isabel's hat and her handful of hair pins. "Down, darling."

Backing up another step, Isabel drops to sit on the bed, head tilted back to look up at Greta. Her hair's falling down over her shoulders, midway down her back, and Greta follows to pluck the rest of the hair pins from it so it can fall freely, so Greta can get her hands into it, holding Isabel's head still for another kiss. "Are you going to be good for me?"

"Please," Isabel says, close enough that Greta can feel her lips move. "Let me, please."

"So sweet." Greta kisses Isabel once more and stands up, reaching to take her own hat off. "You know the rules."

Isabel nods, slightly fast. "Don't look away and don't touch unless you say."

"And?" Greta prompts, laying her shawl down.

"And say 'circus' if I can't go on," Isabel says, biting her lip.

"Good girl." Greta knows that Isabel's always hated the suggestion that she might not be able to keep to such simple rules, but she needs to know that Isabel will say something if she needs to. Isabel never has, yet, but it's still there in case they both need it.

Greta takes a breath, settling herself, watching Isabel. Isabel's watching her, sitting on her hands as if it's the only way she can remind herself not to touch, but Greta can still feel Isabel's eyes on her, as heavy as a touch from her fingers. "Do you need help?"

Isabel nods again, shifting her balance. "Please, it's been so long."

"Right, then." Greta thinks fast. She hasn't got anything with her to tie Isabel's hands, and she's confident that Isabel hasn't got anything with her, but there are ways to improvise. "Take your boots off."

Isabel's boots are much finer than Greta's, a lighter colour of leather running under the buttons as she works them free, clumsy in her haste. Her ankles are slender, stockings white linen and shaped close to her legs. They won't stretch as much as Greta's wool stockings would, and they'll be stronger. Besides, there's something poetic and satisfying about using Isabel's own stockings.

"Stockings too," Greta says, once Isabel's put her boots aside, and Isabel pulls her skirts high, fumbles to untie her garters.

Garters might have been possible, but they're thin. Greta wouldn't be certain that garters wouldn't dig in and end up hurting Isabel, and Greta's not interested in causing pain. She knows there are people who like it, and people who like the pain, but Greta isn't one of them.

Greta likes an audience.

She steps forwards, swiftly undoing the buttons of Isabel's bodice, letting the backs of her fingers trail over Isabel's chemise as she pushes it open. "This comes off, too. Give me your stockings."

Isabel hands her stockings over, the fabric still warm from her skin, and wriggles out of her bodice, leaning to lay it out at the end of the bed. "Is that all?"

"For now." Greta tests the strength of Isabel's stockings by pulling on them, and nods satisfaction. She wouldn't be able to take Isabel's bodice off with Isabel's hands tied together, but she can manage Isabel's corset and chemise enough to get to everything that she wants. "Put your hands behind you."

Isabel smiles, shoulders easing down as she shifts and Greta leans over her, winding the stockings in a figure eight around Isabel's wrists before knotting the feet to the tops. Not too tight, because she doesn't need them to physically hold Isabel. They just need to remind Isabel to keep her hands to herself.

Standing back, Greta studies her handiwork with a grin. Isabel's flushed, pink down to the white neckline of her chemise above her corset, hair in disarray over her shoulders, and having her hands behind her presents her breasts beautifully. "Much better."

"Thank you," Isabel says, soft and breathless, and licks her lips as she looks up at Greta.

It's too much to resist, after so many weeks apart. Greta kisses Isabel again before moving back to unbutton her own bodice, laying it on top of Isabel's before she unfastens and steps out of her skirt and petticoats. (All the layers are why Pen dresses much faster than she does.) She's still mostly covered but, apart from her boots, nothing she's wearing is anything that anyone else (except Pen) gets to see.

From the look on her face, Isabel's appreciating that. The appreciation sends a familiar heat through Greta, settling heavy in her cunt as she takes off her bustle, reaches back to untie her corset laces and loosen them enough to unfasten the busk. She's only been wearing the corset for a couple of hours -- it's not flexible enough to perform in -- but she can still feel the weight of her breasts shift as she releases the fastenings and sets the corset with her petticoats.

"Please..." Isabel's voice is lower and, when Greta looks across, her eyes are darker as well. She's not pulling against her stockings, but there's a definite tension to her shoulders.

It's beautiful.

Purely to emphasise what Isabel can't have, Greta cups her own breasts through her chemise, lifting them to the same level as they'd been when supported by her corset. "Do you want to touch me?"

Isabel nods frantically, leaning towards Greta as if that could persuade Greta to agree. It won't, but Greta still appreciates the effort.

"You can't," Greta says, revelling in the power of the words, of the moment, and pinches her own nipples, lips parting on a soft gasp at the flash of pain that pulses pleasure through her. "You're here to watch me touch myself."

There are things she could use. Leather and porcelain female syringes that are intended to treat female hysteria but are put to much better use inciting female (and sometimes male) pleasure. With someone else, somewhere else, Greta might have used one, but she doesn't want one for her time with Isabel. There's something pure about it being just Isabel and her, hands and mouths and bodies and stockings.

Isabel moans a soft, wanting moan, but doesn't protest. Instead, her throat bobs as she swallows, and she licks her lips, gaze levelled at Greta's breasts.

Smiling, Greta lets go of her breasts and pulls her chemise off, less careful of where that lands, letting the cool air of the room play over her skin, tightening her nipples into tight peaks.

There's no need to hurry. One at a time, she lifts her feet to rest on the chair, unbuttoning her boots, then unrolls her stockings, unfastens her drawers and steps out of them, completely naked. She moves the chair, close enough for Isabel to touch if her hands weren't tied, sits on it, and leans forwards to kiss Isabel, parting her knees at the same time, spreading her thighs wide, legs brushing against Isabel's skirts.

"Watch," she breathes against Isabel's lips, and leans back, right hand stroking down over her stomach to slide fingers along her cunt lips, gathering wetness to lift and offer to Isabel to lick clean.

Isabel's tongue is hot, slick as the juices that coat Greta's fingers as she returns her hand to her cunt, hips canting forwards to meet it. To Greta's delight, Isabel licks her lips once more and looks down, watches Greta's hand, watches Greta's fingers slide into the heat of her own cunt.

It's wonderful to feel Isabel watching. Wonderful to feel how much she yearns to touch, to taste, and still holds back without protest or struggle because Greta wants it. Isabel's sighs echo Greta's moans as Greta pumps her fingers deeper, draws them back, rubs them in tight, quick circles over her clit, pushing pleasure to crest for the first time. Greta spends with her eyes closed, knowing that Isabel's still watching her and wanting her.

Greta lifts her head, slow and languid, fingers moving slower, drawing the pleasure out before it can fade, and smiles at the desire pinking Isabel's cheeks. "More?"

Isabel whimpers and shifts, pressing her thighs together. It's wonderful.

Lifting her wet hand, Greta offers it to Isabel, fighting back a gasp when Isabel instantly leans forwards to take it, licking her fingers clean, sucking them into her mouth.

"Maybe," Greta says, trying to keep her voice steady, "I should see how much you liked watching me."

She draws her hand back from Isabel's mouth, reaching down to gather Isabel's skirts and push them up, shaking her head in dissatisfaction. "No, stand up. I need to take these off you."

With the chair pushed back, there's room for Isabel to stand, and for Greta to unfasten Isabel's skirt and petticoats, removing her bustle with a slight tinge of wistfulness that she hadn't been able to plan for that in advance. There had to be possibilities there, but she needed time to consider them.

Greta lets Isabel's skirts fall, then rests her hands on Isabel's shoulders to steady her. "Step out of them."

It's slightly awkward with Isabel's hands behind her back, but together they manage it, and Greta drapes Isabel's skirts and bustle over the chair before pushing Isabel back down to sit on the bed.

Sinking to her knees, Greta gently presses Isabel's legs apart, grinning up at her. "Now, let me see..."

"Oh, God..." Isabel's thighs are trembling against Greta's hands, the sound soft above Greta's head as she leans in closer, gently prying open the slit in Isabel's drawers.

Isabel's wet, and she smells heavenly. Greta slips her hand into Isabel's drawers, fingers slipping over her lips, between them, wet curls sliding against her skin as she presses her fingers into Isabel's soft, hot cunt. Isabel cries out but doesn't move, and Greta looks up sharply.

"Stay quiet," she says softly, and curls her fingers, rubbing slowly at that rough patch inside Isabel, the place that makes Isabel squirm against her hand.

Isabel looks down at her, eyes glassy, and nods, teeth sinking into her lip as if to hold back sound. Greta's satisfied that Isabel will try, at least, and leans in to run her tongue along the musky sweetness of Isabel's lips, up to kiss Isabel's clit as her fingers press in again, still working.

In a sweet rush, shaking, Isabel spends for her, breathless gasps the only sounds that escape. Greta doesn't stop, keeps going, tongue stroking over the hard nub of Isabel's clit, pushing her harder, higher, listening for the breathless whispered litany above her to break into a soft squeak as Isabel spends again. It's so perfectly easy to keep Isabel lost in pleasure once she's spent the first time, the gentlest touch keeping her drifting, only a little more pressure and speed taking her back to the peaks.

Greta licks once more and draws back, looking up to watch Isabel's face as Greta takes her again, thumb firm against Isabel's clit as Greta's fingers still work inside her, pushing her to spend one more time, her cunt clenching greedily around Greta's fingers.

"Please," Isabel manages at last, gasped, thready. "Please, oh, Greta, I can't..."

"You can," Greta says, and proves it once more before relenting, slowing, letting her fingers rest still inside Isabel for a few breaths before she slips them out, reaching around Isabel to tease the knotted stockings undone.

Isabel topples sideways with a breathless laugh and stretches, her hands flexing in front of her, and she rolls to meet Greta for a kiss, sweet and warm. "Can I...?"

It's only half a question, but Greta's fairly sure she knows what Isabel's asking, and she shakes her head. "Not now. Not tonight."

Stroking Greta's cheek with her fingertips, Isabel nods, and draws Greta closer. Greta goes willingly, fitting onto the narrow bed, re-finding the ways they fit together with Isabel tucked against her.

"In the morning?" Isabel asks.

Greta laughs, because Isabel's asking so much with those three words. Will Greta be there in the morning, will she stay the night, will she let Isabel bring her off? There's only one answer to all of them. "Yes, in the morning."

There are things to be done before they sleep. Greta needs to move the clothes from the end of the bed, to pull the covers over both of them, to check on Isabel's wrists, to wet a towel in the cold water in the washing jug to clean them both enough not to itch, but all of it can wait. For now, Greta's sated and warm, with Isabel sleepy and satisfied in her arms, and they have the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to angelsaves for beta <3
> 
> (if you plan to practise bondage in real life, please do not take this as a guideline, and I do not recommend that you use linen stockings for bindings)
> 
> The [female syringe](https://victorianauthorshipandreadership.wordpress.com/reading-victorian-pornography-now/jung/) was a Victorian term for a dildo, marketed exclusively to physicians (as far as the evidence shows) but clearly put to less clinical uses.
> 
> Victorian ladies' drawers were made in two overlapping pieces and split at the crotch, [making access much easier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUHeSTDv_24) than with modern underwear.
> 
> Polari was almost certainly in use backstage at the theatre, but I don't have enough familiarity with it to include it here.


End file.
